


I'll Make It Worth Your While

by confusedkayt



Series: Stay the Course [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedkayt/pseuds/confusedkayt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during and right after the 2009 film.</p>
<p>Five times Jim tried to prevent Bones from leaving him (when Bones had absolutely no intention of going anywhere).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Disease, Danger and Disingenuousness

Their goddamn flying rattrap has barely touched the ground before the kid’s up and out the door. Well, up and bothering some poor security meathead with an “accidental” jab of a still-bloody elbow. Christ. Better do a full workup. Kid’s liable to have twenty-seven diseases and blood poisoning besides, the way he’s running around with open cuts on a goddamn space shuttle.

Oh, lovely. Meathead and his burger-for-brains pals are eying _him_ now. Looks like his new buddy Jim made McCoy a few friends before he’s so much as set foot on hippy-dippy San Fran soil.

And there’s the damn kid now, practically tap-dancing outside the shuttle door. Thinks he looks damn slick, McCoy’s sure, with his “subtle” backwards glances and rakish grins for anything in a skirt, split lip notwithstanding. “Hey,” he says, like he hasn’t been waiting, obvious as anything, for McCoy to touch down.

The kid doesn’t seem put off when he just grunts, starts running off at the mouth with some fool story about a twin blondes, a motorcycle, and a traveling carnival. Doesn’t seem to expect a response, thank the lord; McCoy’s got to focus on keeping the churning in his stomach down and Christ if he’s not dizzy. Real good omen, walking into his new life staring at his shoes to stave off stumbling and praying he won’t throw up on them, besides. The kid’s good help, he’s gotta admit, bumping McCoy with a friendly hip when he steers off course and deflecting attention with a monologue that passers-by might just mistake for conversation. Kid’s got a beer coming his way, for sure, once McCoy has two credits to rub together.

Oh, shit. Somebody’s bumped him, hard, and it’s almost enough to knock his lunch right out of him. Swell. It’s Meathead, Jim’s little friend from the shuttle, and he’s practically growling. Hell, _McCoy_ wants to slap the insolent grin off Jim Kirk’s face and he supposes they’re on the same side.

“There a problem?” McCoy growls, and he must sound a little rough because the kid spares him a worried look before he goes back to smirking at the bruisers.

“Yeah,” Meathead says, and he actually cracks his knuckles like they’re in a goddamn comic book. “A couple of shit-for-brains, redneck townies snuck onto a Starfleet shuttle.”

The kid’s stance widens. He’s smart enough not to start a fight in the unloading dock but it looks like it’s a near thing. Meathead bumps him with a shoulder again and McCoy’s debating the merits of letting loose and just throwing up on the fucker when the coot that talked him into this mess walks by. One look from him and Meathead throws a salute and peels off to the left with his whole shit-for-brains posse dragging their knuckles behind him.

“Making friends already, Mr. Kirk?” There’s a quiet warning in that Captain’s voice, but it’s not getting through to the kid. He’s still smirking, insolent as anything, when the whole damn world goes black around them.

A blinding flash, and Christ, there are _stars_ whooshing past him fast as racecars. That’s it. He can feel the vomit scrabbling up his throat, “Space.” A pre-recorded voice booms, too loud in this microscopic hanger. Here it comes. Maybe if he hunches over, keeps his eyes closed… “The final frontier. Congratulations on your enlistment in The United Federation of Planets' Starfleet, a humanitarian, peacekeeping, and scientific organization extending into the farthest reaches of deep space…” What the hell has he gotten himself into, _deep space_ , Jesus…

“Bones. Hey. Can I call you Bones?” The kid’s voice is close, real close, enough to tear McCoy’s focus from that god-awful recording. “Do you want to sit down?” He just grunts and then there’s a warm hand on him, stroking up and down his spine. He’s a doctor, not a housepet, but damn if he can open his mouth to say so without something downright unpleasant slipping out. The kid’s talking about god knows what, droning on real quiet in his ear and it _helps_ somehow, tethers his stomach back where it belongs. Music swells – some damn grand finale – and he shrugs the hand off, straightens up. Christ, McCoy. If he’s like this over a damn video…

It’s thoughts like that that keep him killing his brain cells. He’s got one more swallow left, maybe two. Well, fuck. His flask’s gone missing.

The kid shrugs and flashes an extra bright shit-eater of a grin. “Looking for something?”

Lord, this is the last thing he needs. “Save it, kid…”

“You think I’d stand between a man and his liquor, Bones?” Jim winks – actually _winks_ and bends down to tug a flask out of his sock. His filthy, bloody, god-only-knows-where-its-been sock. He tosses the flask and winks again. “See you around, right?” And then he’s gone, scurried off to command group intake before McCoy can protest that this isn’t his flask and Jim knows it. 

Well, what do you know. The damn thing’s full. He’ll just have to make sure it gets back to its owner in the same blissful condition.


	2. Moving Day

What in the hell… That much pine scent could kill a man. Why the hell was it coming from his room? So help him, if Jim’s taken up drugs…

He ought to know better; that’s not Jim’s addiction and this room is just screaming that the kid’s been indulging in the usual. He’s going to strip Jim’s hide if he’s had some girl in Bones’ bed again. Must have, too, to get the place looking like this. Jim’s not especially messy, but he is in no way the white-glove kind. But now there’s two beds with squared-off hospital corners and every surface of the place is gleaming, probably greasy with that damn pine cleaner.

Even the bathroom doorknob is slick with the stuff. He’s too old for this shit, and too cranky by half. What the hell he’d been thinking, this afternoon…

“Oh, hey, Bones.” Well, that’s a sight he thought he’d never see. James Tiberius Kirk, on his knees and scrubbing a toilet bowl. He’s got an audience, now, though, and of course he sprawls back against the wall, boneless and grinning.

“Hey yourself.” He has to piss but Jim’s making himself comfortable. Here we go. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

“I just felt like cleaning, you know?” Jim’s plate-glass-blue eyes are open extra-wide and innocent, and that’s a tell if ever there was one. He knows better, these days, than to pull that shit on McCoy but he’s pulling it now.

“Yeah, well, I feel like using the bathroom,” he grumbles and Jim levers up obligingly. Christ. A man can’t even do his business without going dizzy from the pine stench.

Jim’s perched on the edge of his bed when Bones comes out, lounging in that careful way that means he’s working hard to hide something. He’s not doing so well – his mouth is twitching wider and wider and he’s bouncing like he’s excited, but there’s a tense set to his shoulders. “Package for you.” Sure enough, there’s a little parcel on the bed. Excitement’s winning out over whatever’s eating Jim; he’s bouncing now, grinning all the way up to his eyes. “C’mon. Open it!”

McCoy knows what it is as well as Jim does. Only one thing comes in a box like that, though he’s not sure why it’s got Jim all worked up. Archer had all but told him to expect a promotion after every first-year cadet and his damn cat ended up in surgery last week. Hell, Jim had bought him nine shots to celebrate.

Sure enough, it’s his stripes. Silly looking, if you asked him, too shiny by half. “Put ‘em on, _Lieutenant Commander.”_ He hates this crap but Jim’s lit up like a Christmas tree, fussing with McCoy’s sleeves until the stripes are just so. “Keep this up and I’ll have to poison you or something. I’m supposed to be the golden boy, remember?”

“Yeah, well.” Jim’s so damned open with his praise, strutting like a goddamn rooster like the stripes were perched on _his_ sleeves.

“So, I hear they’ve got great officers’ quarters in that new medical dorm.” Kid’s about as subtle as a freight train; his grin’s still there, yeah, but his eyes have gone flat.

“I’ll never know. I’m too goddamn old to move in the middle of a semester.” He must be insane, turning down a room that size with a bathroom all to himself and a toilet that Jim Kirk has never ralphed in.

“It’s only three weeks ‘till Spring Break.” It’s the patented Jim Kirk Aggressively Friendly Eye Contact and damn if he doesn’t look happy and proud all mixed in with the flat. “We could blow off Vegas and get you moved. If you want.”

Got to cut this nonsense right off at the root. “I hate boxes, Jim, almost as much as I hate being choked to death by a cloud of Pine-Sol, understood?” Jim nods, and hell if the kid’s grin doesn’t warm his bitter old heart. “Now let’s get the hell out of here before I die of asphyxiation.”

“God, yes.” Jim’s a little too relieved. Hmm… sure enough, slight redness under the throat and at the nose, just the faintest hint of moisture in the eyes. The idiot’s probably allergic to his own damn pine cleaner. 

No sense going for his tricorder. The best prescription would be to get the hell out of here and let the stuff disperse. “You’re buying,” McCoy grumbles, and Jim nods happily, slapping him too hard on the shoulder.


	3. A Diplomatic Incident

Goddamn command types. They start out wrong in the head – have to be, signing up to steer their damn tin cans god only knows where – but he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they rub something into those godawful disco-gold shirts to produce delusions of invincibility. “Now, you listen to me.” Capt- no, _Admiral_ now and that just proves he ought to know better – Pike quirks a cocky eyebrow. Oh, hell, no. “You stand up one more time before I give you the go-ahead and you _will_ be in that chair ‘till the end of your days. You got damn lucky this time, but you have physical limits. I’m a doctor, not a magician…”

The bastard waves a lazy hand, cuts him off mid-sentence. “Quit working miracles, and maybe I’ll believe that line.”

“My god, man! This is serious. One more stunt like that and you _will_ lose your legs.” Pike’s still grinning. Jesus. “So help me, I’ll strap you down and sedate you for a whole damn _month_ if that’s what it’s going to take.”

Pike’s holding up placating hands, and the damn grin is toned down, at least. “I just… forgot for a moment. It won’t happen again.”

“We’ll get you a lap restraint, so you can’t just jump up before your brain catches up with you.” Dammit, he should have thought of this the first time. Of course any man fool enough to hire Jim Kirk would be too reckless to comply with basic medical instructions. Should have been rid of him weeks ago, too, but the bastard requested Bones special even after the Enterprise landed.

He’s almost glad that someone’s thumping on the door – he’s this close to hollering in a way that even this admiral can’t overlook. Except… Oh, hell. It’s Jim, and the last thing Pike needs is a partner in crime.

Lord above – he _winks_ at Bones, and turns an apologetic smile on Pike. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were with the doctor still.”

“You might as well come in, Captain.” There’s warm emphasis on that title, and Pike’s lopsided smile looks a helluva lot like Jim’s, now that they’re side by side. “We’re all friends here.”

Jim shrugs, awkward-like. Poor kid always has trouble taking compliments from Pike with any kind of grace. “Brought you something.” His eyes flare wide, like a damn cartoon character. “He can have cookies, right, Bones?”

“Not if you baked ‘em.” Jim shoots him an unimpressed look. “Go ahead. There’s nothing wrong with his stomach.”

“I’m always starving when they hook me up to that thing,” Jim says, nodding at the osteoregenerator.

“It should worry me that you know firsthand, but I can’t say you’re wrong.” Pike’s half-smiling again as he takes the box Jim’s offering and pries at the lid. His eyes pop – Jesus, but there’s no change in his blood pressure, thank god – and the man’s positively beaming. “Where on earth did you find…?” 

Jim’s got no kind of poker face – he’s practically spitting sunshine. “I’m tricky like that.”

Nobody should look this goddamn cheerful in a hospital room and the two of them competing for Teen Girl Weekly’s brightest smile is more than he can take at the best of times, let alone when he’s at the end of a shift and smack in the middle of Jim’s faux-father bonding time. “I’ll be going,” he mutters but Pike turns that offensively cheery grin on straight on him.

“Not before you have one of these, you won’t. Best pecan brittle north of the Mason-Dixon line.”

Jim kicks him, the bastard, even if it doesn’t hurt. “And don’t give me that shit about being on shift. I know better.”

They’re both staring now, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. He knows when he’s beat. “I’m gonna wash my hands,” he says pointedly, but Jim just snorts. Damn kid has a Teflon immune system, not doubt from years of self-abuse.

With any luck at all, they’ll get to ignoring him now that they’ve got what they wanted. Jim’s right, he’s got no excuse except that he wants to see something that isn’t hospital white, dammit, and he can’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t be here. Pike’s a smug bastard all the time, but he’s got a little something extra just now. “So,” Pike says, raising one eyebrow real slow, “Komack tells me you put in a request for that Tellurite cadet and a Cardassian historian.”

Jim’s laying it on thick, blue eyes wide as anything. “As the flagship, the Enterprise is an important symbol of the Federation and all it stands for.” Pike dips his head. Oh, hell. He’s gonna make Jim say it. “Sir,” Jim adds, chirpy as hell.

“Naturally.” Pike’s just a touch annoyed, so at least that title wasn’t what he’s fishing for even if someone _should_ beat some respect into Jim. “I’m sure that it’s just coincidence that there’s only one available medic with anything like the experience to treat that kind of a crew.”

Shit. Kirk twitches, looks guilty as sin for just a second before his big boy smile’s back. “Lucky me, I guess.”

Pike’s raising an eyebrow at Bones and damn if he doesn’t feel guilty. “Dammit, Jim, I signed my commission ten days ago.”

The kid looks genuinely surprised before his face just lights up and Jesus, Bones thought he’d been grinning before. “You did?”

“Thought it went without saying. Who else can keep your damn fool head attached to the body?”

The chair’s gonna bust right out from under Jim if he keeps bouncing like that. “It’s not my fault people keep trying to pop it off.”

Pike’s worked up a full-fledged smirk now and he’s aiming it in McCoy’s direction. “It’s just as well. Don’t pass this on, boys, but your first mission will be taking the colonists up to New Vulcan and if you weren’t there, McCoy, I think we’d have a diplomatic incident on our hands. A couple of those Vulcan elders have taken quite a shine to you.”

Those emotionless bastards? _Taken a shine?_ Not likely. Pike seems amused at his growl, too, the bastard, before jerking his head towards the door. He and Jim are just two subtle peas in a goddamn pod. “Dismissed?” He’s too damn tired to keep his tone diplomatic.

“Sure,” Pike laughs, and he’s almost out the door before Jim’s grumble catches up with him.

“Aw, Bones.”

He knows that tone; Jim’s whining just for the sake of it. “I’ve got things to do.”

Jim huffs, but doesn’t seem inclined to argue. “Can we do dinner? I’ve got some stuff to go over with my new CMO.”

They’re both grinning at him, that smug note back on Pike’s face, but Jim’s bouncing and, hell, Bones’ more than a little excited himself. “Alright,” he says, and Jim flashes that thousand-watt grin again before the door slips closed.


	4. Pushing, Paper and Otherwise

Hell if he knows what to bring over. Jim’s run ragged enough these days that throwing a drink on top of it might just be enough to topple him. That might not be so bad, but he’d rather substances weren’t involved. Christ. He’s turning crotchety for sure, fussing over nothing–Jim’s got the constitution of a goddamn Clydesdale and for once he’s not sick or bleeding. But Uhura’s the only one on that bridge with a lick of sense – whatever she’s got going with that cold-blooded leprechaun notwithstanding – and if she’d unbent enough to look worried…

Well, hell. Enough of this waffling. A hydrator, maybe, and a vitamin shot, but Jim’s liable to break out in welts at the sight of anything good for him so Bones had better call up the chart, just in case. Of course. Of course Jim’s allergic to the goddamn _inert serum_ the vites are suspended in. Even his goddamn cells are hyperactive, rejecting the outside world on the _molecular level._

Jesus. If he’s this mad, it means he’s worried and if he’s worried it’s high past time he got going. Or, hell, this time maybe he _is_ just pissed. It’s totally goddamn needless, is what it is. They haven’t encountered so much as a freighter in two weeks, and, miracle of miracles, nobody’s died or even got especially close to it on any of the three space rocks they’ve been ordered to report back on. There’s no reason for Jim to be worked off his feet, except some paper-pusher in admiralty’s got it in for him. Hell, half of them do and what’s worse Jim _knows_ it - expected it, even, and hell, that’s sad even if it does make sense.

You think he’d be used to it, but no, four weeks in this damn tin can and he still gets sick to his stomach in the goddamn turbolifts. Something in him knows that it’s trying to trick a man, make him feel like he’s moving at right angles instead of a tilt. At least it’s a short ride to Jim’s place. He hopes to hell the engineer who cooked that up got a commendation because starship captains are the most reckless characters on God’s green earth and the doctor had damn well better be able to get to ‘em quick.

The door’s open when he gets there but, well, he knows Jim and he’s better off hollering just in case. “Jim?”

“Come in,” and the kid sounds alright but Bones gets to door open fast enough to see him before he can scrape his company face together.

“Don’t give me that horseshit,” he grumbles. Jim opens his mouth like he’s set to argue but now Bones knows the kid’s in a bad way because he just shakes his head and lets his smile go a little tired. “I dunno what you’re doing on the damn floor, with a perfectly good bed and a desk chair right beside you.”

He lets his eyes fall shut and dammit, now Bones is _worried._ “I’ve got a crick in my back,” Jim admits, but his eyes fly open when what he’s said filters through. “Which is in no way an invitation to bust out the hyposprays.”

“We’ll see,” Bones grunts and fishes the tricorder out of his kit. 

“This is supposed to be paperwork time,” Jim huffs. Bones has finally got him half-trained, though, enough that he doesn’t wriggle away from the tricorder. Well, hell. It’s almost bothersome that there’s nothing much wrong with Jim, medically speaking, even if his veins are thrumming with stimulant and he could use a little water.

Still, he pulls out a hypo and taps it just to watch Jim’s eyes flare wide. “This is my bedroom, Bones. Where I _sleep_. I don’t want to associate it with your homicidal tendencies.”

He’s tempted to just stab and be done with it but he has to admit it would be cheating to force this one on Jim. “You won’t feel so tired after.” Jim’s still dubious. What the hell – might as well do it right. “And if you stay still, I promise I’ll go gentle on you.”

Jim lifts an eyebrow and so help him, he’s not so beat that Bones won’t smack him for a ‘that’s what she said.’ The corners of Jim’s mouth curl up – message received – and he shrugs. “Yeah, ok, Dr. Feelgood.” 

Maybe he’ll slip a hint of analgesic in there. It will help with his back, and Lord knows Bones has never been above knocking Jim out. “Gimme a shoulder.” There. One drop ought to do it, and it’s got a slow enough release that Jim might not catch him out.

Jim stretches like a goddamn cat, knitting his hands up as far as they’ll go and arching his back. Something pops, loud enough to hear – better make that two drops. “Why the shoulder?” he asks, but he pulls his sweater off easy enough.

Lord. It’s a wonder Jim ever gets away from the mirror in the morning. He’s patting his hair down, or trying to. It’s so dry on this damn ship that everything’s got a little static charge. “Your hair’s fine, princess.”

Jim stops mid-pat to glare at him, but it doesn’t stick. “I’m serious, Bones, why the shoulder?”

“It’ll hurt less.”

Bones is long immune to the big, betrayed eyes. “So all those time’s you’ve stabbed me in the neck…”

“If you ever held still when I told you to, I wouldn’t have to.” He reaches out to cup one strong, bare shoulder and Jim’s eyes drop. It’s not a flinch, granted, but it’s just enough proof that the Invincible Captain Kirk is legitimately leery of hypos that Bones feels guilty for pushing this. But he _knows_ Jim, and hell if he’s gonna slow down and take care of himself until there’s no way to pry this ship out from under him. “That’ll hit in just a second. Now, we’ll need two glasses.”

“That’s more like it.” The headache lines are vanishing and Bones considers breaking out his flask because… Well, because he’s going sappy in his old age and doesn’t want to vanish that smile just yet, dammit.

Responsibility’s a bitch. “Water glasses, at least to start. I’ve got something else for you, but if it’s any consolation I’ll be drinking it, too.”

“Please tell me it’s a hallucinogen.” Jim hauls himself up and over to a cupboard and Christ he looks tired.

“It’s vitamins,” he says and Jim snorts.

He pads back in with a couple of glasses that were clearly nicked from the Academy cafeteria. “Classy,” Bones mutters, tweaking one rim.

“You know it.” Jim folds back down on the floor with more creaking than Bones would like. Joints shouldn’t sound like that at 25, even if they are half-healed most of the time. He’s staring at the vitamin tab blooming in his water glass, looking so goddamn vacant that Bones can’t help but give him a friendly shoulder bump. The answering smile’s faint, but it’s there, and at least there’s something going on behind Jim’s eyes now. 

Bones takes a slug of the vitamin drink and makes a face. Sure, it tastes like gritty shit but hell if it doesn’t rev you up a little. 

Jim snickers at him, the damn sadist, and nudges a PADD with one toe. “Let’s get this party started. This pile’s everybody’s medical releases, and an inventory, and that requisition request you sent. I’ve checked them over but you’ve got to sign off, too.”

Christ, there’s reams of it, orders and requisitions and reports. “Isn’t that bastard First Officer of yours supposed to take this off of your hands?”

Jim shrugs again, and there’s that godawful fake smile. “He’s busy.”

“Bullshit. He hardly needs to sleep.” He gives Jim his best out-with-it glare.

Jim just shrugs. “He’s the science officer. He’s, you know, doing science.” He jerks his chin at a stack of PADDs climbing halfway up the damn wall. “That’s all him.”

“Makes him part of the problem, far as I’m concerned.” Jim’s giving him a look and, well, hell if he’s gonna be the problem, too. Waste of goddamn time, if you ask him, all this signing and certifying. He did half of these damn checkups himself. Still, hell if he’s gonna be the one to make the Enterprise’s first screw-up.

“He’s got to see that I can do this, too.” An easy shrug.

“Half your job is delegation, Jim…”

“Yeah. After they see that I can do it if I have to.”

He’s right, is the thing. They need to know if Jim can follow the rules and do the shitty tasks as well as the hero ones, that he can mind orders and mind Spock, and, and, and. “When’d you get so damn practical?” he growls, but it’s a weak attempt and he knows it. Back to the damn PADD.

He’s too old for this shit – tiny writing, too-dark screen. He’s through most of it, though, before Jim sidles up next to him. No sense dignifying this with a real response. He raises an eyebrow and Jim leers. “I’m cold.”

“Then put your damn shirt back on.”

“Too much work,” he says like that’s the end of it. He can’t be comfortable, all pressed up against Bones’ right side and Bones needs that hand to sign, so he keeps jabbing Jim with an elbow. Fool kid doesn’t seem to notice, much less care, and he’s looking at his screen hard enough that he isn’t just pretending. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s not normal, either, and one of these days they’re gonna have to man up and talk about this, whatever the hell it is or isn’t or might be someday. But for now he’s got shit to sign.

Jim lets out a noisy sigh and drops his PADD. Bones has only a got a couple left, himself. There. Done and done. That painkiller’s doing a miserable job of sacking Jim out and besides, the end of paperwork’s an occasion if ever there was one. He leans forward and Jim’s got that look like he’s about to start bitching but he settles when he sees Bones is just going for his flask. He’s got to close his eyes when he takes a swallow of it – nothing like a decent bourbon in this world or any other.

Jim takes a ginger little sip but thinks the better of it, thank god, and follows it up with a proper swig. They aren’t that old yet. This part’s comfortable, passing a drink back and fourth and staring at the wall. You can tell Jim’s all burnt out; quiet, for once in his damn life, and staring straight ahead. But that can’t last for long. “It’s all important, you know. If the numbers are off or I missed something…”

“Don’t remind me.” He can’t suppress a little shiver at the thought, all the tiny moving parts just waiting to blow up, barely staving off the pressure and poison and cold out there.

“Sorry.” Jim goes quiet for a minute, tapping his foot up and down. “Old Spock called today,” he spits out, finally. That’s no good. Whenever that old coot gets involved, Jim gets as philosophical as he ever does.

Something in his face makes Bones swallow his comment. Jesus, this is really bothering him, whatever it is. “It was just really different, you know, when I…” A head shake. “When other me, I guess? When he came up like you’re supposed to, and everybody knew he wasn’t a fuckup because he proved it, you know?”

Jim’s said all he’s gonna, at least on this topic. Lord knows he won’t stay shut up, so Bones had better spring before the moment passes and Jim’s back to wallowing in this all by his lonesome. “We’re all on a learning curve, Jim.” Christ, this is uncomfortable. “You know how it was in school. I was always rushing around, with all those classes and four experiments going on the side. Now I’ve got to stay put.” Hell if he’ll say it out loud, but it’s hard this way, crammed into sickbay with his patients. He’s got two burn patients down there right now and he doesn’t know which scares him more – the one that refuses the sedative and keeps whimpering under the regenerator, or the one who’s all the way under and so goddamn still that Bones can’t stop himself from checking his vitals every time he walks by. It’s hard, to stay there with the suffering for hours on end once he’s done all he can, with nothing much else to distract him. Jim’s just staring at him, in that intent way where he’s trying to pry something out of you and, well, this isn’t something you say out loud. Gonna have to take evasive action. “I’m lucky to have Christine taking the worst of it. Best damn nurse in the fleet.”

“Complements, Bones? You feeling alright?” Jim puts a hand on his forehead, like he’s taking a temperature but the mischief leaks right out of him just like that and his hand… Jesus, his hand slides down to cup Bones’ cheek. He leans in, sticky slow, probably leaving time to bolt but hell if Bones can get himself together in time to get up.

Christ on a cracker, it’s as good as he thought it might be, Jim’s smile up against him and the lingering flavor of his favorite bourbon. Just like he imagined, too, when he’d let himself, the posing and groaning and moaning because Jim’s a showman right down to the bone. But there’s an edge to it, a desperation that Bones can’t say that he likes much. “Hey,” he says and dammit, Jim’s tucked his face in so Bones can’t seem him clearly. “Not on the damn floor.”

Breaks his fool old heart, a little, to see the relief in Jim’s face but he hasn’t got time to brood about it when Jim’s tackling him backwards onto the bed. Of course he’s got to wrestle Jim down, pin him a little – thank God he’s taller, even if Jim could throw him off in a hot second if he wanted. But he gets the idea pretty quick, relaxing back into slow, sloppy kisses without that frantic fear in them.

Aw, hell. Jim’s hands are getting slow, clumsy – forgot about the goddamn painkiller. “You gave me something,” he gripes, voice all blunted and sleepy.

“Yeah,” and Jim gives him a little glare before reaching up to circle Bones’ wrist in his fingers before the liquor, painkillers and good-old-fashioned exhaustion finally gang up on him. His grip’s good, even in sleep.

Guess that means Bones is stuck for the duration. He’ll just ease off Jim… Oh, hell, those fingers are tightening and he’s frowning in his sleep. “Not going anywhere,” and he’s is an idiot, talking to Jim when he’s out like a light. “Just don’t want to crush your stupid ass.”

Lord, he’s a sap, but it’s nice, to cuddle Jim close and let the fool kid hang on to his wrist. It’s about time he got some damn sleep and, well, the rest of it will shake out tomorrow, one way or the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STAR TREK INTO DARKNESS SPOILERS IN THE NOTE:
> 
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> I am just.... retconning that throwaway line about Chapel fleeing the ship due to Kirk's tomcatting around with her. Carol misunderstood. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.


	5. ... And Beyond!

Goddamn Starfleet. The first time in a month he’s got a sickbay blessedly free of sufferers, so of course there’s Jim’s damn yeoman darkening his door with a pile of forms the size of a fat toddler.

Funny, that. The way Jim’s been talking, Admiralty’s not riding his ass so hard these days, and yet this batch of paperwork is the worst that’s come McCoy’s way. How many syringes? How many goddamn, three-cents-a-piece syringes he’s used, and there’s no better way to waste the CMO’s time…

Waste. His. Time. Dammit, Jim. Maybe he’s wrong, but now that he’s looking that kid is leaning right in front of the intercom, twitching like a newborn foal. McCoy knows he’s a scary bastard, but he’s never shaken this kid up, certainly not bad enough to scare him into the kind of side-eyed nerves he’s exhibiting. “Yeoman Clark.”

The kid jumps. “Yes, sir?”

“You feeling all right, Yeoman?” The kid’s eyes follow his hand as it moseys right on back to the rack of hyposprays mounted on the wall.

“I’m fine.” Just a little bit of a squeak in his voice, whites of his eyes showing. Hope he’s not laying it on too thick – poor kid’s under Jim’s spell same as the rest of them, probably worse than most. Not his fault he’s down here peddling make-work.

Still. McCoy taps a hypospray significantly. “You sure? You look a little peaky to me.” One step forward and the kid stumbles back, just enough that his hand slips from the intercom. Jim’s voice is there, excited as McCoy’s ever heard him and that’s saying something these days. “… _Enterprise’s_ first jump into uncharted space…”

“Dammit, Jim!” Clark’s smart enough to get the hell out of the way. Jim must have known, probably a couple of days or at least a couple hours. Come to think of it, he’d been twitchy this morning, running his mouth a mile a minute in a way that McCoy should’ve known was pure distraction.

It’s not the fastest he’s ever got from ‘bay to bridge but pretty damn close. Jim’s still giving his goddamn voiceover when McCoy busts out of the lift. Jim jumps, just a little, all wide-eyed guilt. Spock’s at his elbow. “Emotionless,” his lily-white ass. That purse-lipped look is pure bitchery. “Keep it up, you’ll get stuck that way.” Goddamn hobgoblin just raises an eyebrow and – incredibly – quarter turns so he’s staring straight at the starry view.

He ought to be used to it by now, but Jim’s heavy-handed whack to the shoulder still startles him a little. “Bones! What brings you…”

Oh, Jim. So excited he can’t sit still in that damn chair, bouncing up and down, blue eyes snapping with excitement and just a little worry. That’s no good – for once, he’s not here to put the fear of god into the boneheads that drive this contraption into an escalating series of disasters. They talked about this one, goddammit, but Jim can’t get it through his head that if McCoy hasn’t bailed out of this tin can yet, he never will. He lays a friendly hand on Jim’s shoulder, tries that fratboy squeeze on for size. “Thought I’d get a look at this fresh hell you’re driving us into firsthand.”

Jim’s grin goes supernova and damn if McCoy doesn’t feel the breath stop in his throat, just for a second. Jim’s fingers grab his, a little quirk of the mouth and then the Captain’s back, swiveled forward and all business.

“Well, then, let’s get this party started. Engage.” 

And there’s that familiar feeling, his guts trying to claw their way right out of him and back onto solid ground. The whole crew’s straining forward, but it’s clear as crystal that he’ll barf all over the damn floor if he so much as glances at whatever it is that’s got them all so damn fixated. Idiots, all of them, because there’s never been a sight like one James Tiberius Kirk, all lit up for the first time by the dancing light of unknown stars.


End file.
